


pen pals

by tinygrunt



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hospitals, M/M, RoyEd Week, Stab Wound, doctor!ed, medical handwaving, not graphically depicted really, patient!roy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 22:02:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11860509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinygrunt/pseuds/tinygrunt
Summary: Dr. Edward Elric was well-trained on how to deal with a fuckton of emergency medical situations; unfortunately, Roy Mustang and his god-awful stab wound were not on that list.





	pen pals

**Author's Note:**

> this shit fic is my debut in the royed fandom and i'm not even sorry about it
> 
> HAPPY ROY/ED WEEK!! the prompt used was: “You embarrassed me this evening.” 
> 
> i hope you enjoy! <3

“Excuse me, nurse, sir—”  
  
 _“I am a goddamned_ doctor _,”_ Ed growled, in his most ferocious voice. Because of his slight fucking _stature_ and his young fucking _face_ , he got this crap day in and day out; Edward Elric, M.D., did not go through ten years of schooling for this bullshit.  
  
“Right, well, doctor, sir. I kind of have an emergency.”  
  
Ed’s head whipped around, face flushed, because he was tired and most definitely in a foul mood and at the tail end of a thirty-hour shift and he wanted to fall off the face of the earth. By any and all gods in the universe, if another trauma patient called him a nurse, he’d…  
  
 _Oh_. “Shit,” was all he could say. He blinked once, twice, three times.  
  
The guy was in his mid-thirties. He had, among other things a pretty face, a lean, muscular build, shaggy black hair, and kind of… well… a _really pretty face._ But that wasn’t important. What _was_ important was the fact that there was a ballpoint pen stuck through his palm. A through-and-through. In the wise words of his little cousin Nina—a Big Bad Stick. Ed blinked again, for good measure. What was the protocol for this?  
  
“Well?” Pretty Face Guy questioned, and his face went from hesitant to panicked in record time.  
  
“Uh… yeah. Okay. Yeah. Just great. Come with me,” Ed sighed, waving him forward with his clipboard, motioning for him to follow. “You been triaged?” he asked.  
  
Pretty Face Guy followed as instructed, and Ed pulled him into an available examining room. “Just now,” he told Ed. Ed moved to the computer to root around in the system, pleased to find what he was looking for. Pretty Face Guy’s name was Roy Mustang, he was actually thirty-eight, and he only had allergies toward bees and strawberries. Poor fuck. According to what the triage nurse had written in the file notes, the stabbing incident was an accident precipitated by an argument, Roy had no idea if the pen was especially dirty, and he wasn’t in too much pain anymore.  
  
She hadn’t gotten a set of emergency contacts from him. It wasn’t likely he’d need any, but it was still standard procedure, so Edward grumbled about until he found the right form and a new, semi-paper-free clipboard. “Fill out this paperwork while I go and get some supplies,” Ed said, giving him the uneven mess of paper. “I’ll get everything else taken care of. Shit—uh, do you need a… pen?”  
  
Mustang just blinked at him, looked down to the one embedded in his palm, and then looked up, slowly and methodically, with an expression that screamed “ _you’ve got to be kidding me_.”  
  
Ed didn’t blame him.  
  
“I’ll get you another.”  He felt his face flush, so he turned and bolted before it was obvious. He had to retain what little pride he had left.  
  
Ed returned with a felt-tip marker from the children’s play area, because he thought that would be a funny and considerate gesture. He had no clue what level of trauma the patient would display when faced with another ballpoint deathtrap. He handed it over and Mustang gaped in surprise before he barked out a laugh. “Thanks,” he said, a grin now stuck on his face. It was repulsive, Ed decided, as he felt his stomach twirl.  
  
“So,” he started, both fumbling for conversation and eager to hear the story for himself, “how exactly did this all happen?” Ed gestured with a bottle of antiseptic toward the wound, as if the situation needed clarification, and the man’s lips didn’t leave their offending curl.  
  
“Do you want the story I gave your nurse, or do you want the terribly humiliating, but unfortunately true story?"  
  
Edward took the clipboard back when it was offered to him, and he fixed the man with a suspicious look. “You really need to ask?”  
  
His question only furthered the amusement on Mustang's face, and Ed was beginning to think the man was a bit of an asshole. It was just a hunch. Ed began to get the stitching tools out and ready while he listened. “My roommate and I host poker nights with some of the people in our office,” Mustang explained. “I was sober tonight for the sake of driving a few friends home, but everyone else, including my roommate, was more than a touch inebriated.”  
  
“Uh-huh.”   
  
Roy snorted at the suspicion in Ed’s tone. “Again, I swear upon my own good name that I had nothing to drink or smoke tonight. Please keep that in mind as I proceed.  
  
“In college, my roommate was apparently part of a fraternity that hazed its new members. A part of that hazing routine was a test of courage, which included brilliant games such as five finger fillet.”  
  
Ed couldn’t help but stop dead in his tracks. This man wasn’t just an asshole; he was a _fucking_ _dumbass_. “You didn’t.”  
  
“Oh, but I did,” his smugness turned into a small wince. “The game ended early, and one of our friends suggested we find other entertainment. Jean—my roommate—grabbed this very Paper Mate Medium Point and started making slurred threats to our collective masculinity. Of course, brave soul that I am, I had to step forward and champion the people.”  
  
“And you got stabbed.”  
  
“And I got stabbed,” Mustang confirmed. “I was so surprised that I jumped and hit him with my impossibly thick skull. I think his nose may be broken.”  
  
Ed was truly appalled. That was a feat in and of itself. He had to tell Al about this. “No shit?”  
  
“Absolutely no shit, whatsoever. So, Dr…”  
  
“Elric,” Ed supplied motioning for the patient’s hand.  
  
Mustang lifted it, and Ed took the tips of the man’s fingers into the palm of his automail hand. It was gloved, as per the usual, but Ed could tell that Mustang knew the difference between steel and skin even without being able to see the prosthetic.  Ed almost laughed; maybe it would scare him, that the doctor with only one flesh-and-bone hand would be the one to decide the fate of his. “Dr. Elric,” Mustang amended, “what are we looking at with this?”  
  
“I’m gonna disinfect what I can before we remove the pen. I’ll look more at the wound after we take it out to see if it could be infected, but that may be more of a waiting game. Best case scenario, you walk out of here with some stitches.”  
  
He nodded, looked Ed dead-on with his dark, tired eyes. “All right, then.”  
  
Damn it, he really was hot. Ed looked away as quickly as he could and fidgeted with his handhold, heat creeping up his neck. “Can you lift your hand up a bit? I need to… ah.”  
  
Panic flashed over Mustang’s face. “Is it bad?”  
  
“No, no,” Ed shook his head. “Fuck knows how—uh, excuse my language—but it’s surprisingly clean. I’m kinda stunned. There could be nerve damage, or something but I don’t… move your fingers, yeah? If it hurts too bad, don’t worry about it.”  
  
He did so. Ed continued to be amazed. “It hurts, but everything seems to be working properly,” Mustang assured him.  
  
“Well, then. I guess we can pull it out?” Ed really didn’t know what else to do. Mustang looked at him a bit suspiciously, because it probably wasn’t the most reassuring thing in the world for the doctor to be questioning his own decisions. Ed disinfected the skin and visible parts of the pen, and then took the injured hand in his left so that he could do the pulling with his automail.  
  
Through the glove, Ed committed to memory the lines of his fingers, long and bony, and he tried, he _really tried_ not to look at how big his hand was, or how trimmed and clean his nails were. He especially tried not to take note of the fact that there was absolutely no ring on the man’s finger. Ed was largely unsuccessful, on all counts, but he figured the attempt had to count for something. He really hated this guy. “Even your hands are fuckin’ good-looking,” he mumbled as he reached out for the pen, and really, _truly_ , he meant to only voice this to himself, but luck was never on his side.  
  
The comment caught Mustang so off-guard that, instead of sitting still so that Edward could gently ease the pen out of his hand, he jerked opposite the direction of Ed’s pull. He yelped, an undignified noise from a more than dignified man, and Ed almost laughed, except he was a doctor, and this situation could lead to the sort of nerve damage that the patient previously did not have.  
  
At least it was out? They stared at each other in complete shock for a solid three seconds before Ed jumped back into professional action. He looked down at the hand and tried not to let the actual bloody hole bother him. A few critical glances later, Ed deemed the wound Probably Not Infected, and moved to clean it once more. “Can you move your fingers still?” he asked, hopeful. Mustang could.  
  
“All right, I’ll stitch you up, then. Sometimes with puncture wounds it’s not great to stitch them, but since the tendons in your hands need a little TLC, and this isn’t as narrow as your typical puncture, I’m gonna go ahead and do it. I’ve disinfected, so hopefully we aren’t sealing in any bacteria,” he explained.  
  
There was a glimmer of something dangerous behind the patient’s eyes, kindling behind the previous mask of discomfort that he wore. Ed didn’t like the look of that, especially since he couldn’t look away from it. “As far as TLC goes, you could always just kiss it and make it better,” were the authentic fucking words that escaped Roy Mustang, Total Stranger’s mouth, and Ed wanted to hit the floor and dissolve. He wanted to perish. He was too fucking tired for this. Mustang was too fucking pretty for this.  
  
“I just might try,” Ed chuckled, red and uneasy. He was breaking all sorts of rules, wasn’t he? This was inappropriate. Winry would have his ass. “This, uh, it’s going to take a while to heal, as you may have anticipated. Correct procedure would be to take you in for x-rays, but I felt around and it really didn’t seem like you’d broken or fractured anything. You’d probably feel it if you did, so it’s your call on whether or not you want the x-rays and stuff. I’ll just get you to the radiologist.”  
  
He hummed in thought for a second as Ed applied the numbing gel to the stitching area. Ed glanced up, idly curious, and the patient shook his head. “I much prefer your company,” he said, “and I don’t think anything’s broken.”  
  
“I’m surprised you’re still such a bastard after all this pain I’ve reinstated upon your system,” Ed said, a smile fighting its way to his face ( _he didn’t authorize that, damn it_ ). “The numbing should kick in shortly, but I doubt you’ll like me as much after the stitches.”  
  
“Quite the contrary. I think I’ll still like you just as much; it’d be hard to convince me otherwise, at this point.”  
  
“Yeah, whatever.” _Fuck_. Mustang grinned at the splotches of tomato-red blush on Ed’s face. He had to counter. The ball was in Ed’s court once more, and he couldn’t let the pincushion prat score another over on him.  
  
Mustang leaned back a bit, looked really smug for a guy with a fucking… fuck-face. _Fuck!_ “You really do have... particularly impressive hands.” Ed’s voice was absolutely weak, and his own hands nearly shook as he rinsed the wound with sterilized water.  
  
 _Fuuuck.  
  
_ “Why, thank you,” Mustang responded, voice dropping a solid octave. How was that even possible? Ed wasn’t sure. He had to get his dick under control in order to stitch this guy up, though, and that deep fucking voice act was not going to help. “But, I’m sure the hands of a journalist are hardly as impressive as the hands of a doctor.”  
  
Ed took a deep breath, tried to rein himself in. “I’unno. Mine’re a little fucked up. I’m gonna stitch you now, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” he said softly, and when Ed grabbed the needle and sutures, Mustang looked pointedly away. Ed didn’t blame him; he absolutely _hated_ needles. And stitching wounds up sorta massively grossed him out, but it was his burden to bear.  
  
“I’m gonna prod at you a tiny bit with this needle; hopefully you won’t feel much but pressure. Let me know if this hurts.”  
  
“No, I can’t really feel anything.”  
  
Ed nodded and started working. “You’ll feel some tugging, probably, as I pull your skin back together. If you’re curious, feel free to look, but I’ve seen lots of people pass out or puke because they decided to.” He trailed off to work, because as much as he liked to tell Al he could, Edward was _not_ a multitasker. He finished the top side and applied a bit of ointment. “Flip your hand for me,” he urged, and Mustang did as instructed. The man had closed his eyes by then, skin a bit paler than it was during their earlier conversing.  
  
He worked in blissful silence on Mustang’s palm, and gave it the same treatment when he finished. He took his time wrapping both sides in bandages. “You’re all done,” Ed told him. Mustang’s eyes fluttered open, and from his close proximity to the man, Ed could see every last one of his obscenely long lashes. Those, in combination with his full cheeks, cupid’s bow lips, and dark eyes…  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Yeah, ‘course.” Ed had it really, really bad. “So, stitches care one-oh-one. Keep them dry, apply antibiotic ointment, and keep activity with this hand to a bare minimum. We don’t want you pulling at your sutures. Don’t try to take them out by yourself. I know they get itchy sometimes, but you just have to ignore it. I’ll prescribe you a scar cream. If you pop a stitch or notice any signs of infection, your ass better be right back here in my waiting room, yeah?”  
  
Mustang nodded sagely. Ed wanted to pat him on the head and say _good boy_.  
  
He really couldn’t let this one get away, could he? Ed had to ask him out, or for his number, or something. The second he got home, Al would just know that he messed up somehow and badger him into violating privacy laws to get Mustang’s contact information, anyway. “We’ll have to schedule you a follow-up to get them removed. Lemme just add a bit to your file, and then we’ll get you out of here.”  
  
The patient looked at the bandages for a little and flexed his fingers almost experimentally before reaching with his good hand into his pocket. “I’ll call my ride while you do that, if you don't mind.”  
  
He waved a hand in permission and turned to the computer. Mustang was quiet as he figured out how to situate the phone and make the call. Ed could hear it ring from across the room. He pretended to be busy, but he was mostly trying to eavesdrop.  
  
“Hey, Jean. Yes, I’m ready.”  There was a pause as The Ride answered, a buzz in Mustang’s ear. “Yes, well, you owe me quite the favor. Not only did you gravely injure my particularly impressive hands,” Edward’s face heated once a-fuckin-gain, “but also, you embarrassed me this evening. No, not in front of the others. I have a beautiful and esteemed doctor looking after me, and I’m fairly sure he thinks I’m the biggest schmuck in the world.”  
  
Edward laughed, rough and raw, uncontrollable. “Yeah, you bet I do.” He really didn’t. He really, _really_ didn’t. Beautiful? Ed was so fucked. Al was going to tease him mercilessly over this.  
  
Mustang smiled again. “Yes, that’s all right. Just let me know the ETA when you can. No, I’m not thanking you. You’re paying the hospital bills, as well. Yes, you should continue to feel awful. Okay. Right. See you in a bit.”  
  
Ed snorted at the last bit of the exchange, and then quickly proceeded to actually do what he was supposed to be doing. “Your roommate, yeah? Thought you said he was drunk off his ass?”  
  
“He still is a little, I think,” Mustang responded, slipping off of the crinkling sanitary paper with quite the clamor. “Probably more than a little.”  
  
“And you’re letting him drive you?” Ed asks, voice sparking with the flint of his quick temper.  
  
Mustang looked a little shocked at first, confused, and then shook his head quickly. “ _No_ , no. He’s getting me an Uber. There will be no drunk driving here. I like to think myself a bit more responsible than that.”  
  
“Says the sober man who let the drunk man stab him for kicks,” he sighed. Ed felt his pulse begin to return to a normal level. This man would give him a permanent case of hypertension before the night ( _morning_ , he told himself) was over. _But_ , he thought, _now was his chance_. He had to make a move. “Tell him to cancel it. My shift’s pretty much over, so if you want, I can drive you.”  
  
Mustang looks at him with the strangest mix of emotions Ed has ever seen, as if his resting mask of neutrality was waging active war with both giddiness and disbelief. “I… okay,” he nodded, a smile finally spreading on those fucking lips. It was genuine for all of two seconds before it became exhaustingly self-satisfied. “I mean, I _was_ hoping to get your number after this, so I can hardly say I’m dissatisfied with the offer.”  
  
Would he even survive the car trip? “I’m about to retract said offer, Mr. Mustang—“  
  
“I’ll take it, thank you,” he chuckled. “And please, call me Roy. I truly was going to ask you if you wanted to get dinner or a drink sometime, so it would only be fair if we were on a first name basis.” Ed ran through a list of chemicals and drugs in his head; what sort of drug had Must—er— _Roy_ passed to him through his hand blood? Through skin contact? Air particles?  
  
“Okay,” Edward said. “I’m Ed. And I could actually use some pancakes right now, if you’re up for it.”  
  
That smirk, _that fucking smirk that Edward hated_ , settled permanently on Roy’s face. It burned like the slowest, sweetest fire, seared itself like a brand on Ed’s memories, and the doctor didn’t think that stitches could fix that.  
  
“Or,” Ed amended, the idea coming to him far too late, “should I say, _pen_ cakes?”  
  
Yeah, that look of supreme fucking chagrin was the one Ed could _really_ get used to.


End file.
